Pàdraig MacAoidh. Peter Mackay. Makar. Gaelic Poetry

Makar: Pàdraig MacAoidh

Pàdraig MacAoidh – Peter Mackay – became the Scottish Makar just over a year ago. And he’s the first Makar to write primarily in Gaelic. His day job is senior lecturer in Literature in the School of English at St Andrews University. Are you thinking that’s somewhat ironic? Maybe but it must be a boon to Scottish universities to have someone writing in Gaelic, brought up bi-lingual in Gaelic & English, who studied in Glasgow and Dublin, and also speaking Irish, Danish and Spanish.

Pàdraig MacAoidh. Peter Mackay. Makar.

A couple of months back he gave a beautifully poetic talk at the Independence Forum Scotland Conference. The talk is called “What Is It Like to Be a Scot?”. We’ve held back on publishing it as a podcast until now, for the New Year. We think it will inspire you.

And don’t worry, it’s in English! You can watch on our YouTube Channel here. The audio-only version will be on most podcast platforms from Friday 9th January.

Having enjoyed the talk so much, Fiona and I read some of his poetry. Sadly for us, we’re limited to reading it in English. But his poems are written in Gaelic and then translated by Peter himself into what he calls a “necessarily dishonest translation” because “every language tells its truth.” You can find most of his poetry on the Scottish Poetry Library website. It includes the Gaelic and English versions and some audio recordings of Pàdraig reading them.

Here’s a couple of poems we particularly liked.

The first id called Innis (Island) and was commissioned by the Scottish Government for the National Islands Plan annual report. The second poem is called Fo Làn Bhlàth / In Full Bloom.

Hebrides horizon. Barra. Innis. Pàdraig MacAoidh

Innis

Gus guth làn faoileagmhor a thoirt dha na h-eileanan-sa –

na clèibh de dh’innis-mharannan ’s stacan uaibhridh

na clachan-staire agus drochaidean cuimhne, 

na tasgaidhean facail, pràisichean agus hieroglyphan gneiss, 

na gleocan geòlasach, bàtaichean sgeireach agus raointean gluasadach,

na h-imleagan-sa, na puingean-deiridh-sa, na h-iomallan-fairge gun chrìoch, 

na nid sgairbh, na h-uirighean-sa, garaidhean agus spòran air fleod, 

na pòcanan adhair, na cuachan breò agus na comharran-stiùiridh 

nan seasamh gu diongalta an aghaidh nan sruthan, ag ath-aithris 

uisge, bùrn is sàl dhan a’ ghaoith – bhiodh feum agaibh èisteachd 

ris an t-sluaisreadh aig an t-shoormal ann an geodha

ri gugail peedie na curracaige a’ sgiathadh atween wadders

agus ris a h-uile duine a tha eòlach air an iomadh ainm ac’

agus a chleachdas iad mar chairt-iùil airson faighinn hame


And his translation: Innis / Islands

To give full, gull-throated voice to these islands –

these woven creel archipelagos and proud stacs,

stepping stones to themselves, word-stores,

crucibles and memory bridges, these hieroglyphs of gneiss,

geologic clocks, rocky lifeboats and omphaloi,

sand-shifting landing strips, these end points and infinite

coastlines, cormorant ledges, holts and hovers,

floating spores, pockets of air, bioluminescent nests

and landmarks each braced against their own currents,

their every fresh reiteration of water tilted to the winds –

you must listen to the sluaisreadh at the shoormal,

to the peedie calls of the curracag atween wadders,

and to all those who tend their many names

and depend on them to navigate their ways hame


Fo làn bhlàth

(As dèidh Dennis Potter)

Taobh a-muigh na h-uinneige tha am blàth ann -
blàth na siris, blàth an ubhail, blàth an t-seilich,
mar chop na mara na bhreislich air na geugan
no neulan, gealan, sìol fillte na chèile,
gile na gile, bàn-dearg, pinc air ruadh ’s uaine
nas blàithe na blàth a bh' ann riamh roimhe.
Tha gach rud aotrom, gach rud cudromach;
agus a dh’aindeoin ar cuimhne ’s ar bruadaran
chan eil sinn beò ach san tràth làthaireach
an dràst’ - seadh ’s seo sinn a-rithist - an dràst’

In full bloom

Fo làn bhlàth. In Full bloom. Makar

(After Dennis Potter)

Outside the window, there’s the blossom –

cherry blossom, apple blossom, catkins –

like sea-foam bewildered on the branches

or clouds, egg-white, seed folded together

in the whitest of whites, pink, on brown

and green, warmer than blossom’s ever been.

Everything is trivial, everything is important;

and for all of our dreaming and remembering

we can only live in the present tense

now – and yes, here we are again – now



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